


Not Just Wednesday

by amber_sword_lilies



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Flowers, Suggestive Themes, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber_sword_lilies/pseuds/amber_sword_lilies
Summary: Reader feels more distanced from her already private and reserved Cor, but he proves her wrong.





	Not Just Wednesday

You’d had enough. Enough of the voices, enough of the demands, enough of the incessant droning in the back of your head. Enough was just too much today.

The roses on your colleague’s desk were the same deep red as the ribbon on another’s box of chocolates. Cards had popped up everywhere, blooming like wildflowers. The entire damned city was heady with flowers, perfume and the faint air of mixing scents. You were just going through today, avoiding everyone else’s rose-tint. It must’ve been the shade of the blushed cheeks of that kissing couple on the train. Maybe the rosé that swirled and was toasted at that restaurant you passed. It was pink, it was everywhere, and it was stifling.

You kicked the door shut, fumbling to lock it while you wrestled groceries and a wad of paperwork. Your boss had decided it was ‘absolutely essential’ and ‘must be complete by the Friday, the sixteenth’. It was only then you’d remembered the date. Valentine’s Day. Or as your lover knew it, Wednesday.

He wouldn’t even blink at the sight of you wrestling admin at the kitchen table, shoulders pulled up around your ears and buzzing with tension. He never did. It happened every week, without fail, as routine as everything else in his life. Wake, shower, shave, dress, eat and leave before the sunrise could bathe you in the bed with that same honeyed glow of forgotten embraces. It’d been so long since you’d both had _time._ To breathe, to pause, to love.

But no. The Marshal’s life was one spent in the black of the small hours, the black of Crownsguard uniform and the black of coming home after you’d folded into an empty bed.

Yours wasn’t much better. Beige, really. The beige of the tights you wore every day, the beige of envelopes, the beige of your bedside lamp on pages of books you read over and over, never taking a word in.

You dumped the paperwork on the table and packed away the groceries. Having silenced the outside world, the sounds of your mind had picked up again. It was like standing on a crowded train. Conversations you were never party to but expected to understand. Nope. Enough.

You threw your bag onto the bed before locking yourself in the en suite. It didn’t take long for the room to cloud with steam. Under the stream of the shower, water kissing your nape with a heat and passion your skin had forgotten. The water was washing it all away, the voices drowning as you felt tension break from your shoulders like a landslide.

You threw on your most comfortable clothes; a fine knit sweater and panties that read ‘practical’. There was no point. The laces and silks of fever had been buried at the bottom of the drawer. You rubbed your bleary eyes, walking back to the kitchen. You opened them. The paperwork was still there, piled high like a stubborn brick of paper. Since when could paper look smug? Well, there it was. Your partner for the evening. No glasses of wine, lest they spill, and your boss thinks you’re a raging alcoholic. There was something else on the table…

Nestled in the small crystal vase (a once very appreciated and seldom unused housewarming gift from a certain Scientia), were flowers. No red, nor pink. Luscious white roses, as pale as snow, their silken petals full and thick with their heady scent. The towers of mauve stars; clouds of purple hyacinths. The bouquet was bound with ivy that trailed and trickled out over the edge of the of the glass.

You hadn’t heard the soft gasp you’d made. Hadn’t noticed your hand covering your mouth. A strong arm was wrapping around your waist, a warm and calloused hand intertwining with your limply hanging one. A chin weighed heavy on your shoulder, a stubbled face pressed against the side of your neck, breathing you in.

“I’m sorry,” his half hummed into your skin. “They didn’t have any red roses left.”

You turned around to look at him, breaking from his embrace and fixing on tired blue eyes under that permanent frown. Again, your hand crept to his face without thought. You cradled his cheek, feeling the warmth under the rough, the softness of him. His brows loosened as his eyes fluttered, sinking into a blissful touch. He pressed his lips to your wrist and watched your eyes, his cold blue suddenly as warm as the summer sky.

When he saw the tears on your cheeks, his face tightened around soft eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, suddenly aware of yourself and your rampant emotions. He held your hands before you could wipe away the tears.

“Don’t be,” he whispered, pulling you close. “Don’t ever be sorry for feeling.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, feeling your tears soak into his uniform. You looked up at him, breathing a shaky laugh. A rare smile creased the corners of his eyes. His lips met yours for the first time in so long it felt like it’d never happened before. Soft, and chaste, sweet and shy. You pulled away a fraction, his nose nuzzling yours as you pulled in a shaky breath. His eyes were half closed, watching you under his lashes. It just like the first time. You were lost somewhere with him, some transient world, just for the two of you.  

Lips crashed back together like waves, hands burying themselves in hair, bodies leaning into each other. A dance to some languid, oceanic rhythm. You led him by the lips until the bed met the back of your knees. His uniform was thrown off, left abandoned by the bedroom door. Your sweater had fallen to a soft heap at the foot of the bed.

He covered you, your legs trapped between his, clamped together. His kisses softened again, lips grazing your jaw as hot breath fanned over your throat. The graze of his gentle touch coursed over your skin, patient lips pressed to your neck, feeling your pulse race. It wasn’t burning heat, or fever building in you. It was warmth. Comfortable, quiet love. Tired limbs surrendered to him, hands weakly gripping the sheets.

The heat of his breaths flooded your skin, bringing a flush to your cheeks as he made his way down, eyes closed and frown soft in the bliss of your skin. A soft sigh escaped your lips. He took a mouthful of your breast, gently nipping the flesh before peppering butterfly kisses, grazing his lips in a line over your stomach. You flinched, tensing at the promise of things to come, the familiar craving. You could feel him smile against the soft skin. His fingertips had begun to pull down your panties, bunching them about your hips, pressing deep and careful kisses to each hipbone.

He rose from you, throwing the last separation behind him. He kept your legs together, bending them at the knee. You watched him, his blue eyes soft and deep. His gaze locked on yours as he placed a kiss to the inside of one of your knees. Anticipation made your lips tremble around his name, heat and eagerness pulling your legs open. His arms wrapped under your thighs, hands cradling your hips. You could feel the warmth of his lips, the scratch of his stubble against your inner thigh, gliding upwards towards the building heat of your sex, hot breath washing over you in waves. Your own stuttered around his name.

“Let me prove it,” he mumbled, his voice as dark and heady as wine.


End file.
